I just slept through Sharkboy and Lavagirl.
I promised to watch this movie with my four-year-old daughter, Angie, who is obsessed with sharks. It’s our “quiet time” ritual: most afternoons we either read books or watch a movie together. Sometimes it’s Finding Nemo. Sometimes it’s Kung Fu Panda. This time it’s a movie about two kiddie superheros who try to save Planet Drool.
Only a four year old would love it.
Instead of watching this masterpiece, I curled up under the blue fleece blanket on her bed. I pulled the fleece up under my chin. It felt warm, soft, easy. Like a summer day. I closed my eyes and felt the delicious pull of sleep inviting me in, wrapping itself around me.
In that lazy place between sleep and wakefulness, my mind ran down the usual to-do list. I thought about all the things I should be doing instead of napping, all the reasons I should open my eyes and drag myself out of my daughter’s bed. The dirty dishes. The checkbook. My homework. Especially my homework.
But for once, I let sleep draw me in. I let the magnetic, seductive pull of unconsciousness snare me. And it felt so good.
I woke up as the movie was drawing to a close, as Sharkboy and Lavagirl say goodbye to their mortal friend, Max. Angie hadn’t noticed I was sleeping.
And when I finally dragged myself out of bed, the dirty dishes were waiting for me. The checkbook was on standby. And that never-ending pile of homework was right where I’d left it.